


Burgle

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Cheriks [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Burglary, Fluff, Gen, I think????, Mentions of Murder, Poor Charles, Poor Erik, burglary of tHE HEART, communication issues, well only a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 19:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10646385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: II don't have a summary to give.





	Burgle

**Author's Note:**

> I am complete Cherik trash now

Erik is getting too old for this, but it’s all he knows, so it’s all he does.

He’s still absolutely silent, easing through an open window. He’s felt into the room, and there’s no metal warning devices; of course, there are always plastic ones, but they still have trace amounts. No, there’s nothing here. Foolish.

It appears to be a study of some kind. The walls are lined with sturdy bookshelves, filled with sets of books and an assortment of stand-alone texts. He lets his power creep out, tell him what kinds of metal are here. He doesn’t do any pulling or shaping; just testing.

He strikes gold almost immediately. Literally. There’s a little gold statuette on one of the shelves. Solid, too, no hollows and not plate. Erik smiles and takes off his pack to tuck the statuette into the sheep’s-wool lined interior. It may not be magnetic, but it has enough traces of other materials that he can tell it’s what it seems.

There’s silver in here, too. The desk set has silver all over, but he ignores it. It’s too cumbersome. There are silver fittings on things, and the handles on the old desk are silver; and the screws are lovely, lovely iron. He smiles and reaches out, crooking his fingers and turning his hand slightly. The screws come out quietly and easily, and the silver handles drop into his hand. He wraps each one in a handkerchief before setting it in his pack. The screws float until he tells them to go back into the wood. They do so, tightly, so that it’s like they were never disturbed.

He opens the door from behind the desk, slowly and carefully, making it float on its hinges so it doesn’t squeak (magnetism does nothing for the scrape of metal on metal). When he’s sure no one is in the hall, he creeps out of the study, closing the door behind him. He can open it again at any time. The iron and steel will obey him.

He looks both ways down the hall. Where to now?

The kitchen should have more silver, but he wants gold. So he heads the opposite end from the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t wake anyone.

He puts his hand on each door and searches the rooms beyond. His magnetism maps the rooms, and he finds that each of the three doors down this hall are bedrooms. He considers stealing personal valuables, but his magnetism can’t tell where the jewelry boxes are, if there are any.

No, wait! Brass fittings on a box. Inside is an iron ring. Yes, he can inspect this one—if the occupant will stay asleep long enough for him to use his magnetism to put them in a deep, deep sleep. He will wake them when he’s outside of the house.

He floats the door open again, keeping to the side. There’s a body in the bed; he pads over silently and looks down at it.

It’s a woman, in silk pajamas, a lovely blue that almost blends into her skin. Her hair is a shocking red, compared to the blue. Erik reaches out and guides a small electromagnetic field over her brain, infinitesimally, so that she sleeps even deeper. Then he searches her jewelry box.

Most of it is rubbish. Plastic, brass, copper—no, copper is good—other cheap things. Then he finds a beautiful thing, a golden necklace with a small heart shape studded with diamonds. On the back of the heart it says “for my dearest sister”. A sentimental item. He hesitates… then puts it in his bag. This is no time for sentimentality. He takes the copper, too.

He floats the door shut as he leaves, and slips down the other side of the hall.

Nothing over here. A library (why a library when you have a study?), some guest rooms, a linen closet. He steals a silk pillowcase because he can’t help himself, it’s just so smooth, and in his favorite color, a brown that he knows will shift to copper in the light. It reminds him of his mama’s hair.

He bites the inside of his cheek, anger making the metal around him shift slightly. He puts it all back with an effort and makes his way downstairs.

He picks up several other small items, things that will be overlooked in the search for the necklace. He makes his way to the kitchen, and eases open the cutlery drawer—

Iron approaching. A fireplace poker, and how the _hell_ did he not notice it?! He snaps out his hand, slams open the door to the kitchen garden, makes a break for it—

 _STOP_.

The voice is in his head and is impossible to fight. He freezes on one foot, barely balancing. He can’t move. He can’t move, oh god, he can’t move he can’t move _he can’t move_ —

 _Stop thinking so loud, you’re giving me a headache_.

The panic won’t stop though, and then the anger wells up, and knives and pans and the heavy skillet all rise up and aim themselves—

A blanket of calm, of reassurance, falls over his mind. It’s not his. He fights it, but it is inexorable. Slowly, his heart returns to its normal rhythm. The panic and anger fade. His weapons quietly lay themselves down and do not move.

The person walks in front of him, using the poker like a cane. Erik can’t even blink, but the moment he sees those beautiful pale blue eyes he hates them.

 _That’s not very nice_ , the voice in his head says, as the person’s—the man’s—face shows amusement. _Now what were you doing in my house in the middle of the night_?

Well, he can’t very well answer with his throat stuck like this, now, can he? He can’t even glare. It’s… frustrating. It would be infuriating, but that damn calmness…

 _Don’t try to speak. Just show me_.

Show… him…?

 _Just think about why you’re here_.

Carefully, Erik forms words in his head, imagining that he’s writing them down. _I’m… just… looking_?

 _Oh, very good_! The man beams at him like he said something clever. _That’s a lie, but I’m impressed you managed words. Is this the first time you’ve spoken to a telepath_?

He’d jerk as if stung, but he’s still frozen. No—no, he thought Emma was the only one, she’d _said_ she was the only one, in the whole city—

 _Emma_?

Erik shuts down the memory of her like he shuts down so many memories when they threaten to overwhelm him. The words-on-paper approach is hard, but he manages two more words before he has to let it go. _No one_.

The telepath frowns, and reaches up with two fingers as if to touch his own forehead… but then he lets his hand drop. _Alright. But why are you_ here _, at night, stealing my sister’s valuables_?

Erik imagines a hand giving him the middle finger and the telepath smiles again. It’s a nice smile… no, damn it, he’s pissed! He shouldn’t be thinking about smiles!

He gets the sense that the telepath is laughing at him. Then suddenly he can move again, though the calm on his mind remains; he staggers, catches himself on a chair, and promptly falls over.

“Oh no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—!” The telepath drops to his knees and tries to help Erik sit up, but he snarls and bats away his hands, rising to a crouch but still clinging to the chair. “I’m still not very used to freezing people in motion,” the telepath explains ruefully. “It’s easy when they’re standing still, or not moving at all.”

“You—fucking—“

“There’s no need to bring crude language into this,” the telepath objected, and he actually looked hurt. “Are you going to tell me anything or shall I have to find out myself?”

“No, don’t!” Erik bursts on, his hands on the chair tightening. He’s already had Emma in there once; he doesn’t want to repeat the experience. “I’m sorry about the necklace, you can have it back, just don’t get in my head and don’t turn me over to the police!”

“Which neck—ah. You’re thinking too loud again. Yes, hand that over, if you please.” The telepath holds out his hand. Erik digs in his bag and finds the necklace, dropping it into the telepath’s hand. “The rest of the jewelry too, please. She’s very fond of it.”

He tries to refuse, but something nudges his limbs into action, and he snarls as, one by one, his hands shaking as he fights, he pulls out each trinket and hands it over. The telepath sets each piece on the kitchen table, out of Erik’s reach. Erik could stand up faster than him. He could swipe everything, bowl him over, run. So why doesn’t he?

 _I’ll stop you again_.

He flinches, and hands over the last bracelet.

“Happy now?” he croaks, still shaking.

“Not particularly, no.” The telepath frowns, and reaches up to touch his own temple. Erik stares at him, confused—

The telepath’s eyes widen, and he stands abruptly. “You should leave,” he says tightly, “Before I call the police.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Erik snipes back, stands, and bolts out the door.

~

He gets no joy from the pieces he kept. He pawns them all, melts down the metals and sells them too. He keeps the pillowcase, though. Emma laughs at him, and Azazel smirks, but Erik ignores them.

He works on his mental walls. He plans to go back.

~

“My necklace!”

“A thief broke in,” Charles explains gently, as Raven snatches it from him and holds it close. “He’d taken your jewelry, and some odds and ends. I made him give most of it back. Including the jewelry.”

“Not all?” Raven asks curiously.

Charles’ mouth twists. “No,” he says softly. “He needed it more than we do.”

~

Shaw finds the pillowcase and sells it.

“Buy another,” he tells Erik shortly when Erik confronts him. “Although we’ll just have to turn around and sell that, too.”

“Actually, Shaw,” Emma drawls, coming up to stand at Erik’s left shoulder, “He’s right. You’ve take too much from us. _All_ of us.”

“Not just _things_ , either,” Azazel growls, stepping up to Erik’s right.

Shaw stares at his three chosen ones. “Is this a mutiny?” he demands in disgust.

“No,” Erik says quietly. “This is payback.”

And he pulls out a coin.

~

Charles wakes in the night again because the same loud, angry thoughts are coming from the kitchen. This time, though, he doesn’t pick up the poker. He picks up his cane, wood with brass fittings. He’d sensed the thief’s ability for magnetism early on, and confirmed it with that slight probe that had showed him… too much. But he also senses that the thief is not here to steal.

He is here to talk.

Charles steps lightly down the hall and to the stairs. The faint sound of a door closing behind him, and he turns to see Raven tying her dressing gown tightly before walking to him.

“I don’t know if he wants to talk to both of us,” Charles tells her softly.

Raven snorts. “You think he’s only here to talk?” she whispers. “No. He wants something else, he’s going to have to fight to get it.”

Charles sighs, but offers his arm. Instead of taking it, she ducks under it, pulling it around her shoulders and taking some of the weight off his legs and back. He lets out a shaky breath of relief as the pain that has been building up all day begins to abate. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Raven presses her cheek to his temple for a moment, then helps him down the stairs.

Before they enter the kitchen, she shifts shape to her usual blond cover. Charles doesn’t tell her that the thief has already seen her true self. She will be frightened and even angrier. He doesn’t want to do that to her.

They step into the kitchen and halt.

Knives dance in thin air, a lovely, lethal ballet. Sitting in a chair with his feet up on the table, the thief waves his hands gently, conducting a silent orchestra. His face is relaxed, calm, but his thoughts are still angry. He glances to the two in the doorway, and freezes. The knives freeze, too. Then, slowly, carefully, they float back to their drawer, which closes with a soft squeak.

There is an awkward silence.

“If I’d known you had company I wouldn’t have come,” the thief says stiffly.

Charles sighs. “She’s my sister, you pervert. Help me sit?”

Raven helps him to the chair farthest from the thief, her distrustful eyes on him even as her hands make sure Charles is comfortable. Wonderful Raven, protective to the end. Well, Charles is the same. Only more so. He squeezes her hand in thanks, then turns to the thief.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks frankly, clasping his hands over his cane and giving the thief his full attention.

“What did you see, in my head?” the thief demands bluntly, his own hands clasped over his stomach.

“Not much,” Charles admits. “Mostly felt. You have a lot of emotions in you.”

The thief narrows his eyes at Charles, but apparently decides he isn’t lying. “How much is “not much”?” he asks.

“I saw your reason for being here. I felt your hatred. That’s all.”

“And what was my reason?”

“To pay off Shaw. To get him to let you go. You and your friends.”

The thief snorts.

“Alright, acquaintances,” Charles amends with a sigh. They’re far more, from what he saw; bound by the blood on their hands. Murderers, as well as thieves.

“May I?” Charles asks, raising his hand to his temple, not quite touching.

The thief is silent for a moment. Then he nods, jerkily.

Charles touches his forehead and reaches out, carefully, slowly, feeling along the walls of the thief’s mind. They’re good, very good, much better than they had been; but there are still whistling cracks, through which bleed memories and thoughts.

The most recent memory is of killing a man slowly.

Charles is up and to the sink in moments, retching, breaking contact so suddenly he hears the thief fall out of his chair. Raven is beside him, dearest Raven, murmuring and trying to make her mind as soothing as possible, letting him cling to her mentally until he’s back on his metaphorical feet.

He never wants to touch that man’s mind again. Never.

Oh god, the _happiness_ that had been twined in with the anger…

Slowly, everything calms. He sends his apologies to Raven, lets her build up her walls again and leaves her head alone. The vile creature behind them stands, slowly.

“Get out,” Raven commands tightly. “And never come back again.”

He leaves out the back, locking the door behind him. When he is out of the garden, Charles collapses, shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle sobs. Never again. He never wants to touch something that horrible ever again.

Somehow Raven gets him to bed, and he sleeps. He has nightmares, though. Nightmares about blood and death and coins.

~

Erik is still shaking when he returns to the penthouse. He hadn’t wanted… hadn’t expected… the telepath’s touch had been so… pleasant, and then…

He knows what the telepath saw. He knows he’s a monster, for feeling so much pleasure at Shaw’s demise. But shouldn’t a telepath as strong as that be strong-willed enough not to throw up just because of a murder?

Emma is waiting. She takes one look at Erik and says, “Right. Vodka it is. Then you’re going to let me through those shitty walls of yours and see what happened.”

He doesn’t argue. He trusts Emma. Almost as much as he trusts that other telepath.

Emma checks on the way to the liquor cabinet, but says nothing.

Erik sits down on the couch and puts his face in his hands. He’s in turmoil. Part of him, the stupid part, the part he’d thought long dead and buried, wants to apologize to the telepath. Most of him, the sensible part, knows that it’s no use, and there is no reason to. And what did he mean, he trusted that weak-stomached mindreader? Just because he’s on the right side of the law doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. He’s probably already on his way to the police.

“Describe him to me,” Emma commands. Erik looks up, takes the drink she’s holding out to him, sips it.

“Blues eyes. Pale blue.” Prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. “Brown hair, kind of a copper-ish color in the light.” Like mama’s, only lighter. “Pale skin.” Red marks from mouths would show up easily on that neck. Erik takes a drink. “Kind of… very red mouth.” How red would it be if he kissed it until the telepath was gasping for breath?

“Enough,” Emma says sharply, and Erik looks up, surprised. “You’re projecting a picture of him. I’m guessing he’s not quite as beautiful as your memory paints him to be.”

“He is,” slips out before he can stop it. And it’s true, his memory is nearly perfect for faces. “He’s gorgeous.”

Emma stares at him. “Maybe you don’t need a drink,” she decides, and reaches to take his glass, but he leans away, suddenly petulant. “Damn it, Erik, just—“

Azazel appears beside them with his usual swirl of smoke and plucks the drink from Erik’s hands. “Disposed of the body,” he tells them. “Hippos will eat him before the people find him.”

“Good,” Emma answers, and glares at Erik, who scowls back. “I think I need to wipe Erik’s memory. Hold him still.”

Erik’s eyes widen. “No, don’t you fucking dare!” he snarls, standing and backing away—but Azazel is there and grabbing his arms and his tail whips around Erik’s legs so he can’t kick and Emma is approaching and Erik tries to call his metal but he knows it won’t work on either of them and so he tries to shore up his walls but Emma has put her fingertips on his forehead—

 _Please don’t_.

The voice reverberates in Erik’s head, making him gasp; Azazel lets go very suddenly with a shout, clutching his skull. Emma keens and puts her hands over her ears, but the voice is in all of their heads, calm, implacable.

 _Memory-wiping is tricky, and he’s got a lid on his memories so tight I don’t think either of us could pry it open_.

Erik feels the calmness trickle through every nerve, settle around his consciousness, helping him see the gaps in his walls, the holes in his armor. He’s entranced, feeling and watching with wonder as his mental protections become as strong as the iron which he so loves. The calmness, the telepath, doesn’t stay inside his protections, though; he slips out, and lets Erik finish the patching-up himself. And Erik feels… safe.

 _There. Much better_. Is there pride in the voice in his head? _Not even I can see your private thoughts. You’re very good at this_.

Swaying, Erik catches himself on the back of the couch and asks wildly, not noticing how _easy_ it is, _What did you_ do?!

 _I… ah…_ The telepath is uncertain. From the way Azazel is rubbing his head, and how Emma has uncovered her ears, Erik guesses the telepath is only speaking to him now. _I stopped her_.

 _Why_?!

 _Because… she would’ve been taking the wrong memories_.

 _How do_ you _know what’s right and what’s wrong?! You’ve not had my life! You don’t know me! Get OUT_!

And he shoves so hard at the mental voice that he blacks out.

~

Charles gasps, eyes springing open, scrabbling for his bottle of pain medication. His back has seized up and his head is a solid ball of pain from being ripped out of someone’s head before he was ready. No, not ripped, _pushed_.

Raven is there, of course she is, helping him roll over on his side so he can take his pills without choking. He gasps again, coughs, swallows hard. Then there’s nothing left to do but grit his teeth and hope his back unknots before he starts crying again.

“Do you hate me?”

“What?” Raven replies, bewildered.

“Do you hate me?” Charles repeats through clenched teeth. “I feel like—sometimes—sometimes you must hate taking care of me.”

“I don’t,” she says firmly, cupping his cheek with her hand. “Charles, I can’t hate you. You’re my brother.”

Lies. All of it. But he’s too miserable and in too much pain to dispute it. He’ll take what he can get.

~

Erik wakes up in his own bed, with Emma holding his hand.

Every muscle hurts, like he’d been working out too hard. But his mind has never felt so clear. Nothing’s cluttering him up. It’s all contained and slowly organizing itself. It’s like those first few years with Shaw, when he’d thought his mission true and clear—but better.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Emma snaps. “Now tell me why you let that damn telepath in your head.”

Erik groans and rubs his eyes. “How long was I out?” he asks wearily.

“Two days. Answer the question.”

“I thought… I don’t know.” Erik let his hand drop to his side, automatically giving Emma’s a squeeze. Even in human form and not diamond she was strong and hard. “He wanted to know why I was there, that first night. So he went in my mind. Not—very far. Far enough. And then when I went back, he did it again.”

“He forced you?”

“No,” Erik admits quietly, staring at the ceiling. “He asked, and I said yes.” He laughs bitterly. “I made him throw up. He didn’t like my memories.”

“But you have him filed under ‘good memory’,” Emma said dryly, and smiled thinly as Erik looked at her sharply. “I know your head, Erik. You’ve got good memories and bad ones. Your good ones aren’t very good… except for him.” She shakes her head. “When you were projecting his face, you were projecting your emotions as well. You have to get better at that. Although…” she moved her jaw side to side as she thought, not gritting her teeth, just thinking. “I haven’t heard any of your thoughts, even though you’ve been out cold and your walls should’ve collapsed by now.”

“He showed me how to fix them.”

Emma stares down at him. “Who? The telepath? _He_ made your walls so strong?”

“No, he showed me how to do it. Emma, I… he knows _so much_. I felt that. He _knows_ things, and he _thinks_ about them, and…” He loses his train of thought, distracted by the wonder of meeting a man with such a wonderful, strong mind. Even if he _did_ throw up when he brushed against murder.

Emma whistles lowly. “Well, that didn’t take you long,” she murmurs.

“Huh?” Erik replies dazedly.

“You’re in love.”

“I am not.”

“You touched his mind, and now you can’t stop thinking about how wonderful he is. Erik, that’s how telepaths fall in love. They learn each other.”

“I am not a telepath though,” Erik replied sharply. “And I am not in love.”

“In love with who?”

“FUCK!” Erik almost has a heart attack as Azazel appears on his other side, leaning over him with a concerned expression. “I told you not to do that!”

Azazel shrugs. “You’re not the boss of me,” he replies easily. “Who’s he in love with?” he asks Emma.

“The telepath,” she answers, “The one who stopped me from wiping his memory.”

“I am _not_ ,” Erik grits out, struggling to sit up as his muscles protest, “In _love_!”

“Whatever you say, Erik,” Azazel assures, with a razor-edged smile. “You looked pretty smitten earlier, when he was in our heads.”

Erik snarls, but before he can reply, he feels a gentle tap on the side of his head. He twists immediately, but Emma hasn’t moved, he’s sure of it. Before he can open his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, he hears a tiny whisper.

But it’s _in_ his head, not beside it.

 _Get OUT_ , he thinks at it furiously.

 _Hear me out, please_ , the whisper pleads. _Erik. Erik, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just—you were scared and I didn’t want her to hurt you_.

Vaguely he hears Emma shush Azazel, but he’s much more intent on this whispered conversation. Well, half-whispered, half-shouted.

 _How do you know my name_?

 _I was in your head, remember? Helping—well I suppose you wouldn’t call it helping, what I did. And… I’m sorry. I’ve… I’ve thought about it. What you said. What you think_.

 _…And_?

 _…Would you like to go for coffee with me tomorrow_?

Erik blinks, completely poleaxed. _You threw up at our last meeting_.

 _And you fell out of your chair_.

 _That’s hardly the same thing_.

 _Yes, but please. Humour me. It’s just coffee_.

 _How do I know you won’t try to get in my head again_? Completely ignoring the fact that this _was_ in his head.

A broken sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh. _I don’t think I’ll ever be doing that without your express permission ever again_.

Erik brooded for a long moment. He felt like… like he had to see the telepath.

 _Charles. My name is Charles Xavier_.

Like he had to see Charles.

 _…what time_?

A burst of something jubilant that really was a laugh. _One o’clock, meet me at the bridge over the pond at the park. I’ll show you the best coffee house in the city_.

Erik almost smiled.

Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> Also I might write a continuation, but NOT as another chapter. Might as well start a collection for Cherik... :s


End file.
